


Five Times Clinton Bathed Neal

by rabidchild67



Series: Undeniable Chemistry [8]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Babies, Barebacking, Bathing/Washing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 13:51:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the last chapter, Neal was seriously injured by Keller; here are snapshots of his recovery while in Boston with Clinton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Clinton Bathed Neal

**Number 1**

“Stop it.”

“Gah! I can’t help it – it itches!” Neal went back to clawing at his own scalp with his left hand. “It’s not clean and it’s gross.”

“And the visiting nurse can take care of it tomorrow, can’t she?” 

Neal had only been in Boston for a day, and they were still figuring out the ins and outs of his care. While well enough to have been discharged from the hospital, he couldn’t yet get his stitches wet and so he couldn’t bathe or shower. Moreover, the injury to his right arm meant that he couldn’t raise it above his head, which didn’t make hair-washing a remote possibility for him. 

Neal gave him his best puppy dog eyes, and Clint was powerless before them. “Fine.” He got up and began to think out loud, rubbing his own head with his right hand. “I guess we can use the kitchen sink? With one of the chairs from the table. I don’t know how else to work it out, or…What?” 

Neal was watching him rub his close-cropped head almost enviously. 

“Jealous?”

“What do you have to do to maintain that – just a squeegee, or…” he smirked.

Clint smiled. “Just for that crack, no conditioner.”

Neal’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t!”

“Don’t test me.”

A few minutes later, Clinton had set up a makeshift hair washing station in the kitchen, with towels, shampoo _and_ conditioner lined up on the counter. He rolled up his shirt sleeves as he walked through to the living room, and found Neal struggling to stand using the quad cane his physical therapist had given him in New York. 

“The wheelchair would be easier,” Clint pointed out.

“I know, but I hate it.”

“And your right arm’s not strong enough yet.”

“Can you just cut the shit and help me? Maybe?” Neal found the helplessness he felt at his body’s weakness hard to take, and so was moody and easily frustrated. 

Clint found it frightening in ways he never knew existed. He ignored the testiness and eased himself beside Neal, put his left arm around his waist and helped him to stand. Neal leaned heavily on the cane, panting and shaking from the exertion. He took a first tentative step forward, then another, Clint holding his other arm as he went. It took several minutes to cover the roughly twenty feet to the kitchen, and sweat was running down his face when they got there, but he made it. Clint helped him into the chair and set the cane aside. Wordlessly, he went to the fridge and poured Neal a glass of water and held it out for him.

“You’re too good to me,” Neal said gratefully after he’d gulped most of it down. 

“Just remember this when we’re old and you’re wiping the drool off my chin.”

“It’s a deal.”

Clint picked up one of the towels and draped it around Neal’s shoulders and then stood there considering the logistics. He pushed the chair farther away so that Neal could lean back against the sink and began to run the water. “Is that warm enough?”

“Yeah. It’s nice.”

Neal watched as Clint wet his hair down, then sat upright as he worked the shampoo into a lather. He used his fingernails to scrub as hard as he dared, and from the moaning sounds Neal made, it felt good. He also found he liked the feel of the silky strands of Neal’s hair slipping and sliding through his fingers. He aligned his hands on either side of Neal’s head bunched all of the hair up, pulling it towards the center of his head in a ridiculous, soapy Mohawk. 

“Having fun?” Neal asked dryly.

“You have no idea. Can I take a picture?”

“No.”

“Can I make horns?”

“Knock yourself out.” 

Clint played with Neal’s hair for a few minutes more, forming it into spikes, horns and, finally, pigtails, giggling hysterically the entire time.

“Had enough?” Neal asked, amused.

“Probably. I could get used to this.”

Clint turned the water back on and eased Neal back with his head over the sink again, pulling out the small hose to rinse Neal’s hair. Neal stretched his neck back, to make it easier, and closed his eyes to keep the suds out. When he did, with the lighting in the room falling as it did, Clint was suddenly stricken with a vivid memory.

_Neal lay in bed, pale, unmoving, his lashes casting long shadows against his cheeks from the harsh overhead lighting of his hospital room. Clint couldn’t take his eyes off Neal’s face. He was so motionless, pale, fragile._

_“What does that mean, a medically-induced coma?” Peter said to the doctor. “How long will he be like this?”_

_“It’s hard to say. Mr. Caffrey's injuries are serious and his body needs time and opportunity to heal. This is our best option for now. He’ll be closely monitored, and we’re doing everything we can. But you should prepare yourselves for the worst. He’s still got an uphill climb.”_

_Clint looked up at the doctor for the first time since he’d entered the room, his eyes brimming with tears._

_“What are his chances?” Peter asked._

_“I can’t say with certainty –“_

_“But if you had to?”_

_“I’d say he’s got about a 50% chance of making it through the night.”_

_“Oh my God,” Clint breathed, and suddenly found that the lights in the room were wavering as his vision tunneled. He slumped into a nearby chair._

_“Jesus, doc, don’t sugar-coat it or anything,” Peter commented, squeezing Clint's shoulder. The warm, human contact brought Clint back to his senses._

_“I’m sorry, but I find it’s best to be truthful. It’s still very much touch-and-go.”_

_“Can I stay with him?” Clint asked._

_“For a little while. The nurses will let you know the visitors’ schedule for the ICU.”_

_The doctor left them alone, and Clint still couldn’t take his eyes from Neal’s face. He seemed like he’d wake up at any second._

_“He’s strong, you know?” Peter said, dragging the other chair in the room over to sit beside Clinton. “He’ll make it through this.”_

_Clint just nodded._

_“He’ll make it through.”_

“Did you get all the shampoo?” Neal’s question pulled Clint out of his reverie.

“What?”

“You’ve been rinsing for ages – did you get all the shampoo out?”

Clint shook his head, focused on Neal’s blue eyes staring up at him and winked. “Oh, yeah, I think so. Explain to me how this conditioner stuff goes.”

\----

**Number 2**

“Hey, what’s goin’ on?” Clint asked, dropping his keys on the table near the door and looking at Neal sitting on the couch clad in nothing but his burgundy silk robe.

Neal hauled himself to his feet using the quad cane and ambled towards Clint. His PT was paying off – he had made much progress in a short period of time. 

“They took my stitches out today,” he said eagerly as Clint kissed him. “I’m gonna take a nice, hot bath.”

“Good for you.”

“Just need your help getting into the tub, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t.”

Neal headed off to the bathroom while Clint went to the bedroom and got changed. By the time he joined Neal, he had the hot water running, an array of bath salts ready to be deployed. He sprinkled some in, and the scent of lemon verbena and lavender filled the room.

“Nice,” Clint commented.

“Supposed to be soothing or something. Here – can you help me?” Neal struggled to balance on one leg and shrug out of his robe. His right arm still had some nerve damage, and he didn’t have his usual range of motion, but it was improving with the PT. Clint’s fear that he’d never paint again was still a real possibility, but the progress he’d made was encouraging. 

Clint stepped in close and eased the robe off Neal’s arms, glanced down as he pulled it away and quickly looked over his boyfriend’s shoulder at the wall, unable still to look at Neal’s injuries. Neal had been shot three times – one bullet that went through his right biceps and into his chest, one that had lodged in his belly, and a third that passed through the fleshy part of his left thigh. The scars were angry, red puckers against his pale skin, reminders of the terrible day that Clint almost lost him.

Neal turned towards the tub and Clint bent over with his arm around Neal’s waist to help him into the tub. He groaned in near ecstasy as he settled into the steaming water, resting his shoulders against the side and making tiny waves with his hands. 

“You want to be alone?” Clint kidded when Neal moaned yet again.

Neal smiled up at him, a contented, lazy smile. “No. I need you to wash my back for me.” He waggled his eyebrows. 

“It would be my pleasure.”

Clint found a washcloth and squeezed some body wash into it, worked it until it was sudsy. Neal sat forward while Clint moved the cloth over his back and shoulders, making him lift his arms so he could get along his ribs. When he moved the cloth over the bullet wound on Neal’s side, he flinched as the still-tender muscles were touched. At that flinch, Clint found himself flashing back yet again…

_The train ride to New York was the longest in his life, and Clint was nearly nauseous by the time he got to Federal Plaza to meet with Peter. Details were sketchy - Keller had taken Neal sometime in the very early hours of Monday morning. There had been a text to Peter from Neal that he wasn’t feeling well and would be taking the day off, and he never left his radius, so no alarms were raised. It wasn’t until Neal missed work Tuesday with no other communication that Peter began to suspect something was up. When several reports that Keller was in town started to filter in, Peter’s fears were confirmed._

_With Mozzie’s help, they were able to track Keller to a warehouse where he had set up several presses to print counterfeit Euros. He had apparently needed Neal’s expertise to mix the inks. All seemed to go well with the takedown; SWAT stormed the place, Peter and the team close behind, and Keller and his thugs had given up without much of a fight. But as they were being cuffed, Keller broke away, unearthed a gun from somewhere and started firing. His target was not any of the law enforcement agents around him, but Neal; he very deliberately sought out and shot only at Neal._

_The nightmare unspooled in front of Clinton like a slow motion instant replay during a football game. The first bullet hit Neal in the arm, lodging itself in his chest. Neal turned, and the second hit him in the belly, the third went through his leg. As each bullet found its target, his entire body shuddered from the impact. He fell to his knees, an astonished expression on his face, his eyes locking on Clinton's for an instant. Clint ran to him as Neal pitched forward, catching him around his back and sliding to the floor._

An act that Clint was at that moment mimicking as he eased Neal back against the tub and used the wet washcloth to rinse the suds off of him. 

“Hey, you with me, Clint?” Neal asked, putting a hand over his and looking up at him curiously.

“Yeah, sorry, just…on another planet, I guess.” His eyes flicked to the surgical scar on Neal’s belly and he used the washcloth to cover it up. Neal tracked his movements with his eyes but said nothing. “Want me to wash your hair?”

Neal took Clint's chin in a wet hand and sat up. “Have I told you how much I love you?”

“Not today.”

“Allow me to demonstrate.” Neal kissed him deeply; when they parted, he was smiling. 

Clint began to wash Neal’s hair for him, massaging his scalp as he had gotten used to doing over the last few weeks, enjoying the closeness and intimacy of it. He reflected on how relieved he was to have Neal here in Boston with him. The arrangement was all Peter’s doing, his insistence.

Weeks earlier, when Keller was being transferred to a more secure lock-up, balls were dropped yet again and he’d managed to escape. This time, a US Marshal and a corrections officer had been killed, and with Keller clearly intent on seeing Neal dead, Peter thought it better for him to be out of the city. Neal thought it unlikely that Keller would stick around, but jumped at the chance to be with Clinton. 

Clinton, for his part, was happy to have Neal with him, but his motivations were more protective than anything else. When it came to Keller, Clinton didn’t trust anyone or anything. His eventual escape should have been anticipated and planned for – in fact, Clint had suggested they double his guard and change up the plan at the last minute, just to keep things unpredictable. But the Marshals insisted on sticking to their plan, two men died as a result, and Neal’s life was still in danger. So until Keller was put away for good, Clint was determined to keep Neal with him as long as he could.

“You like that?” Clint asked as Neal moaned with pleasure from the scalp massage.

“You have no idea. When my arm’s better, I’ll do it for you. Almost as good as sex.”

“You don’t say.”

“Almost.”

\----

**Number 3**

“Hey Clint, check it,” Neal called from the kitchen. He opened up the cabinet where the dishes were kept, reached up with his right hand and lifted a dinner plate down. He held it at chest level, and the thing stayed steady, with nary a tremor or shake in Neal’s arm or fingers.

“Would you look at that,” Clint marveled, smiling.

“I know! Two weeks ago, I could barely lift my arm,” Neal enthused. “I can’t believe this is what passes for excitement in my life now.” He turned back to the stove and turned off the flame under the _pot au feu_ he’d made, grabbed a towel and lifted off the heavy cast iron lid of the pot with some difficulty. Clint watched, hand outstretched and at the ready should he be needed, but Neal managed it nonetheless. “I saw that,” Neal said without turning his head, and reached for a ladle to begin dishing it up.

“OK, OK,” Clint said, backing off, but secretly he was proud as hell of Neal and the progress he’d made in such a short time.

After dinner was over and cleaned up and they were relaxing on the couch in front of the TV, Neal got up abruptly and stretched. 

“Where ya goin’?” 

“To take a bath. Join me?”

“Thought you didn’t need my help anymore?”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want it.” Neal took Clint's hand and pulled him to his feet, leading him down the hall with a heavy limp that was nonetheless unassisted by a cane. 

Neal got the water going and went into the bedroom to get undressed. When he got back, Clint was sitting on the toilet with the seat down, sniffing at a container of bath salts. 

“You’re still dressed,” Neal said.

“Um, yeah?”

“’Join me’ means join me, Clint. Come on.” He pulled at Clint's tie and then busied himself with puttering around the bathroom, then eventually got in. Clint followed suit, settling into the tub at the other end from Neal, looking uncomfortable.

“What’s wrong?”

“Never been much of a bath guy,” Clint answered uneasily, looking around at the soap, the shampoo, anything but Neal.

“I brought whisky,” Neal said, and unearthed a bottle and two glasses from somewhere.

“Now we’re talking.”

They sat at opposite ends of the tub, drinking and discussing Clint's new team in the Boston field office, their knees touching, steam rising from the water, a thin sheen of moisture on their faces, necks, chests. Clint was telling a funny story about a recent case in Italy where an art thief got locked inside a museum just before it was to be closed for renovations and, after not being able to figure a way to escape for two days, called the police to help him get out. 

“God, you almost make me miss the job back in New York,” Neal laughed, and then moved towards Clint, turned and lay against his chest.

Clint stiffened and closed his eyes. 

_Neal never said a word when he fell, didn’t make a sound. Blood poured seemingly from everywhere, and Clint didn’t know what to do first. He sat with Neal laying awkwardly across his lap, staring up at the ceiling while chaos erupted around them._

Neal stiffened against Clint as well. “You never touch me anymore,” he said quietly.

“I touch you all the time,” Clint said, hedging. He wondered if Neal heard the tremor in his voice.

“I think you know what I mean. We haven’t been together since before … well, before.”

_”The paramedics are here, Neal. Just hold on, baby all right?” Clint had said. Neal did not reply. Blood was everywhere._

_“Neal?” Clint shook Neal with a hand on his shoulder. “Neal!”_

_“Here, Agent, let us have a look,” the paramedic said, taking Neal from him and laying him flat on his back on the floor. He ripped open Neal’s shirt and affixed the leads for the heart monitor._

_”I’m getting no pulse.” The man started CPR while his partner set up the defibrillator._

_“Charging to 300.”_

_“Clear!”_

_Neal convulsed violently; the heart monitor showed a flat line._

_“Nothing. Let’s go again. Charging. Come on, buddy, nobody gets to die today!”_

_Again they shocked Neal’s heart, and again. On the fourth try, they managed to bring him back, and Clint nearly fainted from relief._

“Clint?”

“You died in my arms,” Clint murmured.

“What?”

“You died in my arms. You stopped breathing, and there was no pulse, and the medics, they had to shock your heart to get it started again.”

“Clint –“

“They shocked you four times. You were dead for two minutes. _You died in my arms._ ”

Neal sat up and turned to face Clint, put a hand on his cheek. “I didn’t know that.”

“And I keep having these flashbacks to that day. Like just now. You lying against me reminded me of…it reminded me of…”

Neal put his fingers over Clint's lips in a shushing gesture. “Stop.”

“I can’t stop. It won’t stop. No matter how hard I try, I get these images.” Tears were flowing down his cheeks. 

“Shh. Come here,” Neal pulled Clint to him and rested his head against his shoulder. “We’ll make new images.” He petted Clint's face, kissed his ear, his neck. “I’m fine, I’m safe. I love you and everything will be all right. We’ll make new images, baby, we will.” 

\----

**Part 4**

Clint looked up as Neal entered the apartment, sweating, face flushed and looking gorgeous after a morning run. He told him so with a kiss.

“Ick, no. I’m gross and smelly.”

“I like gross and smelly.”

“Not _this_ gross and smelly. I’m gonna go take a shower. Wanna come?”

Clint swallowed the rest of his coffee, not answering.

“Wanna come?” Neal repeated, pointedly removing his t-shirt. Clint made a vague gesture with his hands and Neal walked over to him; he rarely limped anymore, a definite sign of progress. “Come on, it’ll be fun.” Neal took him by the hand and led him to the bathroom, turned on the shower. 

Clint stopped at the bathroom door and Neal turned to look at him. Everything about him – his body language, his expression – was closed down.

“Neal –“

“Why don’t you look at me?”

“I look at you.”

“But do you see me anymore?”

Clint shook his head, crossed his arms.”I see you.”

“What do you see when you look at me?” 

Clint shifted his weight from one foot to another. His reply was halting, reluctant. But truthful. “I see you broken.” 

“That’s not –“

“I see you dying. I see my failure to stop it.”

“We have to get past this, Clint.” He stepped into Clint's personal space and took his face in his hands. “You have to see _me_.” 

He kissed him, then put his hands on his shoulders, stepped back. “See me.” 

Neal bent at the waist, pushing his pants down, stepped out of them and stood there, naked. “ _See me._ ” 

Clint glanced at the scars – still so dark and prominent against Neal’s pale skin – and found that he couldn’t look directly at them. He met Neal’s eyes instead, his own eyes sad and despairing.

Neal stepped forward, took Clint's hand roughly and pressed it to the scar on his abdomen, forcing him to touch it, pressing his fingertips against it. “See that? It’s me.” He twisted sideways, lifted his right arm so that the scar beneath his armpit was visible. “And that – it’s me, it’s _all_ me!” Neal couldn’t help it, he felt a little angry now. Angry about what Keller had done to him, to Clint, to their relationship. And he took it out on Clint.

Neal pushed his boyfriend roughly to his knees and twisted himself so that Clint had to look at the scars on his thigh. “This is me now, Clint. Can you take it?”

“Neal, I –“ There were tears in his eyes.

Neal leaned forward, pressed his leg against Clint's face, forcing him to stretch his neck back painfully to avoid contact. “Can you take it?” Neal whispered.

“Yes.” Clint closed his eyes and clutched at Neal’s legs. And then something within him broke. He realized that he was allowing Neal’s injuries and scars to define him - to ruin what they had - and it wasn’t fair to either of them. And he was sorry for that, so sorry. He bent his head and kissed the scar like it was an apology. “Oh, Neal.” 

He felt Neal’s hand on his head and he looked up. The expression on Neal’s face was filled with compassion and love, and Clint bowed his head yet again and apologized.

“Don’t be sorry, Clint. Be with me,” Neal said, and raised him to his feet. He undressed Clint and led him to the shower, where the warm water sluiced down their bare skin as they embraced and finally kissed. 

Clint's hands began to move over Neal then, finding the scars and exploring them with his fingertips. Eventually, his hand reached between them, and he lined his own half-hard dick up with Neal’s and rubbed them together. 

“You feel so good,” Neal said, maneuvering them so that Clint's back was pressed against the tiled wall. He sank down and took Clint's cock into his mouth, sucking hard. It had been so damn long for both of them. Clint thrust into Neal’s mouth as he worked him, his moans disturbing the staccato patter of the shower as it hit the wall. 

“Jesus, Neal, I’m gonna come.”

“No,” Neal said and stopped, stood and kissed Clint before spinning him and pressing him up against the wall. Neal reached for the small bottle of baby oil that Clint liked to use after his showers and lubed up his fingers, spread Clint's legs with his knee and pressed his fingers against his asshole insistently, a little roughly.

“Yes,” Clint breathed and arched his back against Neal, laying his head on Neal’s shoulder as he worked him open. Neal kissed him as he got the second finger in. Clint pressed back onto Neal’s hand again, riding him. “God, please, I want you so bad, Neal,” Clint moaned.

Neal repositioned himself and pressed the head of his dick against Clint's entrance and pushed it in. Clint's hands pressed against the wall and he suddenly stopped moving, held his breath.

“Clint? Too fast?”

“No. No, just _feeling_ it. More. Please.”

Neal held onto Clint's hips with both hands, guiding his cock into his lover gently, then pulling out just as slowly, pressing back in.

“Harder, please,” Clint breathed, reaching back with a hand and grabbing fro Neal’s ass, pulling him into him, bending forward slightly to accommodate. “Fuck me, Neal, fuck me.”

Neal obliged, pumping into Clint. After a while, he leaned forward and kissed him on his neck, took his earlobe into his mouth and sucked. Clint shivered, as expected and, grinning, Neal reached down and took his lover’s dick into his hand and started jacking him. 

“So close,” Clint gasped and Neal doubled his efforts. Clint came first, splattering the walls, and would have collapsed if Neal hadn’t had his arm around his waist. Neal held him close, his chest pressed up against his back, whispering his name into his ear as he came inside him. 

Neal pulled out of Clint and turned him around, held him close and let the water run down their bodies, rinsing them clean. Clint rested his head on Neal’s shoulder, looked down and caught sight of the scars on Neal’s thigh. He reached his hand down and fingered one of them tentatively, gently. 

“See? They’re not so bad,” Neal said.

Clint shivered with the effort of suppressing another memory of that awful day in New York. _No, they aren’t,_ he thought, _they’re a part of us now._

\----

**Part 5 – Some time in the future**

“Mehh-eh-eeehhhh!” Hannah whined, moving her head to the side.

“Haaannaaahhh,” Neal cajoled, following her movements with the spoon he held, clods of oatmeal landing with faint _plops_ on the high chair. “Hannah Banana!”

“Meeehhh!”

“I’d say she’s done,” Clint said from the fridge, putting the groceries away. 

“No, she barely ate anything,” Neal said. “What is it, baby girl, you got some gas or something?” He unlatched the tray from the chair, unhooked their nine-month old daughter and lifted her into his arms. Hugging her to him, he patted her back and danced around the kitchen. His efforts were rewarded by a large belch, followed by a hiccup and the unmistakable sensation of warm baby puke cascading down inside the collar of his shirt and down his back. 

Neal froze, held the baby out before him and she did it again, all over herself. 

“Oh! Oh shit! I mean. Crap. Crap on a stick.” Neal cast around himself helplessly, looking for a cloth or towel to at least clean off the baby. Hannah looked back at him with a wide grin that displayed chunks of spit up between her two tiny bottom teeth and along the smooth, pink expanse of her lower gums.

“Gross,” he informed her. 

“Bah,” she answered.

Clint just laughed. “Let’s get you two cleaned up,” he said, and walked over. “This might require a hose,” he amended after surveying the damage, and made Neal follow him up the stairs to their bedroom.

He helped Neal out of his shirt – the removal of a shirt while holding a squirming baby being a lesson in advanced logistics – and saw that the spit up had moved some down the small of Neal’s back and into his pants. “You’re gonna need a shower, babe,” he informed him.

Neal groaned and started stripping the baby of her bib, which she caught in a tiny fist, causing more of the spit up to fly over her head, coating her hair. _How could there BE so much?_ Neal wondered.

“Into the shower with both of you!” Clint instructed, and they soon had the two of them undressed and Neal padded to the shower as Clint threw their soiled clothes into the hamper.

Clint watched from the door as Neal leaned into the shower stall with the baby in one arm and turned on the water, waiting for it to heat up. He caught a glimpse of the old scars on his husband’s leg, silvery pink now after years of healing, and felt the old twinge of memory pulling at them. He remembered the day Neal had gotten them, but fleetingly. He remembered Neal’s long recuperation and how close it ultimately made them, and he remembered his own fears and how they nearly destroyed what they’d built.

He moved into the room, holding out a washcloth for Neal as he stepped into the shower with Hannah, then reached down and ran his finger along the scar on Neal’s thigh. This one gesture, over the years, had become a prelude to their intimacy, a shared reminder of what they had and how easily it could be lost, a representation of how they got to where they were today. Neal leaned over and kissed Clint casually on the lips, and then ducked his head under the warm spray of the shower. “Join us?” he asked. Hannah held her pudgy arms out to her father, inviting him.

Clint pulled off his shirt. “It would be my pleasure.”

\----

Thank you for your time.


End file.
